


Ugly, Dirty, and Struggling

by starberby



Category: Benjaminutes (Fandom), Riftdale Chronicles
Genre: Death, Drabble, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starberby/pseuds/starberby
Summary: “But, oh, how silly you are. You don’t even bother keeping track of the number of lines you do tonight, you don’t assume anything’s wrong when you feel electrified and black-lit. Everything’s always hazy and chaotic, for you, so why worry?”Christian gets what he deserves.





	Ugly, Dirty, and Struggling

There it goes; that back of the throat drip, drip, drip. Numbness comes to you like you’re flying into a cloud, soft and easy, and you gasp a grateful breath. You’re high, again, although for you it’s more like cruising at sea-level, barely dodging the depths you know you can reach. You can’t be Icarus if you can’t manage the height, right? You can’t die if you never get close enough for the thing you desire to consume you. Instead, you’re living in purgatory, forever hunting that familiar star. Getting blinded by the light you find so beautiful.

Some would claim your entire lifestyle is a suicide attempt, but that isn’t your aim. Despair isn’t a mortal sin, and you’re more evil than that; you’ve got greed in your bones, Godly Man. Material lust that makes you bite your tongue, that makes you bleed in your mouth, that stains you red. You swallow cleanly and keep asking for more. Keep wanting more, keep taking more. 

More bad decisions, more repercussions you outpace like a motherfucking olympian. If God can’t reach you, nobody can, you figure. Damnation provides a freedom, in that way. You’re going to milk your destiny for every bonus it’s got.

You’ve never considered how it would end, for you. There’s no such thing as retirement in this business, no opting out of the game to buy a little house in the country. No letting go of the hysteria to relax and grow old. In your drug-heightened moments, the times you make yourself out to be a deity to worship, you think you’ll never die. Even when more conscious, you believe it. Objects in motion remain that way, and you’re a tail-swallowing snake, in a permanent loop of annihilation. You could never picture this ending. 

But, oh, how silly you are. You don’t even bother keeping track of the number of lines you do tonight, you don’t assume anything’s wrong when you feel electrified and black-lit. Everything’s always hazy and chaotic, for you, so why worry? You can’t see straight—ha, see straight? You’ve never been on the straight and narrow in any sense of the words, so why worry about your eyes now? The world’s flipping like somebody’s staging a coup. You’re numb, unfeeling like a dead body, unreacting like a noble gas. No big deal.

When you collapse, there’s nobody around to panic on your behalf. There’s nobody left on Earth who would, in this situation. They’d probably watch your body convulse and smile. If not in outright joy, then at least in relief. 

You go out the way you lived: ugly, dirty, and struggling. Nobody’s around to give your Last Rites, to ask you to make final peace with the Lord or Devil or whoever you may be meeting on your passage onward. You’re not even aware enough to understand what’s happening. Then you’re limp. Then you’re gone.

Two grayscale cops end up on the scene days later, looking down at you. The older one is only grateful things ended for you without collateral damage. The younger one looks down at you for longer, his face sad, his hands folded in some semblance of remorse. He’d imagined a different ending, for you, but it appears it wasn’t meant to be. 

No matter. It’s not like you affected him that much. He’ll get over it soon enough.


End file.
